


b-sides and rarities

by heyfightme



Series: soft hands full discography [2]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Punk, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Anxiety, Coming Out, Established Relationship, Homophobia, M/M, Punk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-17
Updated: 2018-02-17
Packaged: 2019-03-19 17:07:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13708878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heyfightme/pseuds/heyfightme
Summary: "We should start a fucking band, man.""Didn't we do that already?""Hur hur hur.I mean, like, a new one. A two-piece.""With two guitars and nothing else? I mean, I know I could pull something out of it, but you?""I wanna know when exactly I became the butt - theassof all musical jokes in our friendship group."A series of extras, set in the 'Baking is Punk as Fuck' universe. More DIY AU, more band shenanigans, and more punks in love.





	1. we're punk ass queers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had written these in response to prompts, and I always intended to put them up here on AO3 and yet never really got around to it. I wasn't sure what format they should take. However, with some free time and some thinking, I figured it out! So here we have _the B-sides_.
> 
> The order they are here is more-or-less chronological, and they all fit the ideas I always had for this AU. Hopefully, for all of you, they make a fun little expansion.
> 
> The original playlists are still available [on Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/user/whyfrenchfry) (there are whole 12 of them), and at the end of each chapter I'll link the song that I pulled the title from.
> 
> Play ball!

 

Bitty had exhausted every single nightmare scenario. He had shot up in the middle of the night and shaken Jack awake, hissing, “they’re going to find the BandCamp page.” He had nearly dropped a mixing bowl on realizing that he’d left a mix CD on his bedside table on his last visit to Georgia. He had dithered around the makeup section of CVS, considering concealers that could be used to cover up the recent adornment on his hip.

 

Jack had been instrumental in talking him down from all three of these concerns: firstly, his mama barely knew how to use Facebook, and so would probably never realize BandCamp was a thing; secondly, the CD left behind wasn’t anything personal or emotional, and could easily be explained away if it happened to be picked up and listened to (however, also unlikely as both mama and Coach were more partial to local country radio stations than random CDs they happened to find in their adult son’s childhood bedroom); finally, Bitty’s summertime wardrobe consisted almost exclusively of long tank tops with shorts, and so exposing his midriff to his parents seemed a highly improbable occurrence.

 

The tipping point is when Bitty is going over Atlanta Mess-Around plans with Jack, and Jack says, “if they ask you about it, you can just say you wanted to keep me company.”

 

Bitty pauses, and stares. Through the Skype connection, Jack is slightly grainy. He’s fresh from work placement, still wearing his Falconers polo shirt, drinking a juice and leaning across from the kitchen counter where he’s propped his laptop. His posture is casual as it ever is, and his expression open and kind. Bitty swallows.

 

“I might just tell them.”

 

Jack’s eyebrows flicker to a frown, and he takes a long pull rom the glass in his hand. After licking the juice from his lip, he emits a measured “Okay.”

Bitty snorts.

“That’s all you have to say? _Okay_?” He affects a caveman-like grunt to imitate Jack, and gets a barely-controlled eye-roll in return.

“I just, ah. Are we talking about Soft Hands, or are we talking about –” He breaks off and inclines his juice towards Bitty, tilting his head with would-be significance.  
“About what exactly? I can’t imagine anything else I would need to tell them. Not like I have a _boyfriend_ , or anything, seeing as certain individuals can’t even articulate anything about relationships that may, or may not, be something truthfully very deep and meaningful and –”

“ _Bits_ ,” Jack insists through a laugh. Bitty widens his eyes in mock-innocence, fighting his own smile. “Are you going to tell them that you have a boyfriend? A very serious, very long-term boyfriend, who is stupid fucking in love with you?”

“Poetry,” Bitty mocks, despite the flare of heat in his cheeks. Even after all these months, Jack’s unprecedented moments of gushing honesty still have that effect.

 

“If you think it’s the right time, then you know I’ll do anything you need to, uh – I mean, I can come down early, if you want. Or not come at all, if you’d prefer.”

“It might be better for both of us if you left the country for a while. Change your name, go into hiding – I can’t account for what my mother might do on knowing you got me listening to that ‘angry biker music’ _and_ want me to live in sin with you. Gay sin, no less.”

“Just play her some Limp Wrist. She’ll come around.”  
There are still nerves that will make Bitty jerk awake out of nowhere. He will stammer over his words as he tries to explain the hidden part of him to his parents. He’ll probably cry. But the image of his mother listening to lyrics like _we’re punk ass queers, normalcy is what we hate_ – it gets him laughing.

 

“Not a bad idea, really. ‘Mama, I’m a punk ass queer.’”

“‘I went to college and became a gay punk.’” Jack pauses, and Bitty hears it even before he says it. “‘A gunk, if you will.’”

“Oh my _god_ , you’re awful. You’re literally the _least funny_ –” But he’s still laughing, and Jack is too.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from 'Punk Ass Queers' by Limp Wrist.


	2. wrote my song down, gave it to the guy

 

“Ugh, this is just ridiculous. I’m _swimming_ in this thing.”

 

Bitty tugs at the tuck of the t-shirt in his shorts, conscious of the way it’s ballooning out. Jack snorts, but maintains his distance, observing with his hands in his pockets.  
“What exactly are you implying, Bittle?”  
“I imply nothing,” Bitty insists, now considering untucking the shirt entirely. “I’m stating facts; I run a size small, and this shirt is even big on you.”  
“I wanted it baggy.”

 

Bitty tuts, and pulls the shirt free from his waistband. The hem falls down over his shorts, concealing them completely. He sighs.  
“Good lord, now I look like I’m not wearing any pants.”  
“You do,” Jack agrees, tone broadly teasing, the suggestive edge for Bitty’s ears only. Bitty directs an admonishing look at him.  
“This is your fault,” he reminds Jack, punctuating it with a sharp poke of his finger at Jack’s stomach. He has recently discovered Jack’s ticklish spot – the close call has Jack jerking away with startling agility. Still, he’s laughing.  
“Hey, I encouraged you to buy a shirt from the stand, but apparently none of them were good enough for you. _I’ll just wear yours_ , you said. It’s not my fault you have zero regard for your boyfriend’s advice.”  
“Oh, I have _excellent_ regard for my boyfriend’s advice,” Bitty retorts, lofty as he gathers the hem of Jack’s ginormous t-shirt in his hands. “Unfortunately, I don’t see him anywhere here.”

 

“That so?”  
“Hmm. He should be careful, really. Too long gone, and I might just forget about him entirely.” He’s busying himself with tucking the side and front of the shirt in, considering a disheveled and carefree look that would at least prove he was a pants-wearing individual – which is probably why he doesn’t notice Jack barreling towards him until he’s been hoisted up by the waist and swung in a circle.

 

Bitty’s veritable yelp and the following giggly protests draw the eyes of everyone in the vicinity. While some faces are startled, and some are clearly amused, there are more than a few eye-rolls.  
“Jack, put me _down_ – you’re getting judged by your peers.” It comes out still-breathless, still-laughing, accompanied by a squeeze to Jack’s forearm where it’s locked around Bitty’s waist. Regardless, Jack obliges, and sets Bitty heavily on the ground.

 

“You know,” Bitty starts, turning to face Jack again and reaching to rest his hands on Jack’s shoulders, “I wasn’t _quite_ sure what to expect from my first festival, but so far I’d say this is sub-par.”  
“We haven’t even seen any bands yet,” Jack reminds him through a laugh, bringing his own hands to sit on Bitty’s waist.

“Exactly! No music yet, and I’ve already had to sacrifice a perfectly good tank top to the Beer Gods. And now, _this_ indignity.” He indicates the huge t-shirt again, playing up his dissatisfaction.  
“I could’ve just _not_ given you the shirt. I could’ve let you walk around in a stained singlet all day, like the slob you clearly are.”  
“Or you could’ve bought a smaller one.”

 

Jack snorts a laugh, turning his head as he does it, but shifting one arm to wrap around Bitty’s neck to draw him in with a tussling headlock-slash-hug. Bitty allows himself to be pulled against Jack’s chest, wrapping his arms around his back. They stand like that for a few moments, Bitty feeling the sun heating the nape of his neck. Jack presses a kiss to his hair. Bitty sighs and breathes in the smell of him, already a little dusted and tacky from the early Atlanta heat.

 

Eventually, Bitty pats Jack’s shoulder and steps away.

 

Jack reaches to tug at the sleeve of Bitty’s shirt, which almost reaches his elbow.  
“C’mon – let’s go get near the stage.”  
Bitty bites his lip, eyes darting toward the area where their first chosen band would be playing, people already milling around the security barrier.  
“I don’t want to be in the pit,” he tells Jack, not so much avoiding his gaze as keeping an eye on the crowd.

Jack claps a hand on his shoulder, a gesture that would reek of bro-type bravado if not for the hug they’d just shared.

“I know. We’ll get on the barrier, and I’ll stand behind you. Not like I’m going to have a problem seeing over your head.”  
Bitty swats his hand away with an affected scowl, belying any pretense by tangling their fingers together briefly. It is, however, already too hot for hand-holding.

 

Jack ushers Bitty through the crowd, an echo of a Haus party that feels a lifetime ago, gentle and comforting as they reach the swell of the crowd. As they pick through to the barrier, although the gathering is still sparse, a few people look to them with indignation. Catching sight of Jack, though, huge and looming, they swallow whatever protest they are about to make. Bitty affects an apologetic expression. It’s not necessarily something he feels, though.

 

He braces his forearms on the blockade, feeling Jack sidle in behind him, reaching to bracket Bitty on one side. Bitty cranes up to look at him, smiling.

“A bit bigger than the Haus,” he comments, indicating the constructed stage, and the comparatively elaborate setup of instruments.

Jack hums, and licks his lips thoughtfully.

“Couldn’t pay me to play a place this huge,” he comments dryly, briefly quirking an eyebrow. He’s only mostly sarcastic, Bitty thinks.

“Oh, yeah, god forbid you play to an audience of more than a couple hundred people, in a location that’s actually been checked and approved for safety.”

“We checked the Haus,” Jack protests mildly, but there’s a playfulness in it too. The crowd is filling out around them, people joining Bitty to lean against the barriers. Jack presses himself minutely closer in response, invisible to the people around them, but clear in the way Bitty feels him against his back.

 

“I used to hate the crowds,” Jack murmurs, only just loud enough for Bitty to hear over the chatter. “Not, like, panicking. Just really uncomfortable. And I don’t like talking in front of people, really. I, ah. It’s hard, finding the right words sometimes.”

Bitty doesn’t say anything, just shifts his grip on the fence to slot his hand over Jack’s. A silent affirmation that he’s listening. He knows that, given the time without interruption, Jack is more likely to say everything he needs to. Bitty revels for a moment in the feel of Jack, and the feel of the breeze, and the feel of the crowd buzzing about them. It’s maybe minutes before Jack speaks again.

 

“I always just let Kent do the talking. At gigs, I mean. And uh, it made sense. He made it make sense for me not to talk. But starting Soft Hands, I kind of expected Shitty would do all the talking, but he said I should do it. And I don’t know, it was weird. I was used to talking to my band, leading them in that sense – speaking in front of people, though. To what, entertain them? It’s still weird.”

Bitty nudges him a little, huffing a laugh, but tamping down on his instinct to interrupt. He’d never thought someone could make him want to be quiet, but Jack – Jack quiets the most intrusive parts of him, just by being there.

 

“The guys, they let me do it how I wanted. Chirped me a bit, sure, but I got away with just introducing songs and thanking the crowd and shit. It took me… I mean, it obviously took me nearly four years to get to the point of doing more.”

It’s an opening; Bitty notes the uptick in Jack’s tone, almost like a question, a clear invitation for Bitty to contribute. With the broadest drawl he can manage, he says, “Well, I’m sure I can’t take _all_ the credit.”

 

Jack snorts, and jostles Bitty a little.

“Yeah, you broke me out of my shell.”

They laugh together, quiet and low, the noise of Jack’s deep chuckles now lost in the rumble of the crowd, but caught in the feeling of him moving against Bitty’s back.

 

“All seriousness, though,” Jack continues, “I think I was more comfortable already, and just didn’t change what I was doing because… more like rather than being unable to, I just didn’t know _what_ to do. I didn’t have to second-guess what I was saying any more. I find it hard, coming up with what to say sometimes.” He leans in close to Bitty’s ear, breath hot, and leaves a tacky kiss on the shell of it. “You give me things to say.”

 

Jack says it in the simple way he is wont to do, for Bitty’s hearing only, and Bitty’s maybe about to make a reply, but the sound check starts happening on the stage, and the crowd’s excitement is infectious. He’ll respond later, probably, with his mouth, but not his words.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from 'Last You Heard of Me' by Joyce Manor.


	3. and a new backyard tattoo

 

“Is that what I think it is?”

 

Bitty follows Jack’s eyes down his own stomach, exposed above the towel he has wrapped around his waist after getting out of Jack’s shower.

 

It still startles him, just a little bit – the image inked above his left hipbone, still only weeks new, still something he doesn’t really think about until he catches sight of it when undressing. He keeps his eyes directed down, fixated on his tattoo – his _only_ tattoo, his _first_ tattoo – as he answers Jack with a voice as mild as he can make it.  
“That depends on what you think it is.”

 

Still stopped in the doorway of his own bedroom, Jack hums.  
“Looks like you got yourself a little temporary tatt there, Bittle. Did it come in a set? You gonna put a rose on your bicep next?”  
Bitty rolls his eyes and folds his arms across his naked chest, jutting out his hip.  
“ _Haw haw_ , Mr. Zimmermann. You think you’re cute.”  
Jack is indeed watching him with a humored angle in his brow and the ghost of one of his wry smiles on his mouth. He mirrors Bitty’s stance, leaning up against the doorway.

 

“Why didn’t you tell me you were getting it?”

 

It’s an innocent enough question, and there’s no judgement or hurt in Jack’s tone, but Bitty can’t help the flash of shame that clamps on his throat.  
“I suppose I wanted to surprise you. _Surprise_.” He sing-songs the final word, shrugging his shoulder up in some aborted showy gesture. It coaxes Jack’s smile free.

“Can I look at it?”

 

As a request, it’s innocuous, but it pushes free whatever had been choked up in Bitty’s windpipe and sends heat through his cheeks. He nods, dumbly.

 

Jack crosses the room and drops fluidly into a crouch directly in front of Bitty, resting his hands on his own knees. He peers at what’s been inked on Bitty’s abdomen, expression blankly inquiring. After a few moments, he reaches to grip at Bitty’s hipbones, using his hold to angle Bitty’s hips slightly further left. He strokes a thumb around the edge of the tattoo, and Bitty might be imagining the roughness of the callous there, hardened from years of guitar, but he still finds himself suppressing a shiver.

 

Eyes still fixed on Bitty’s tattoo, Jack grunts. It’s a little gruff.  
“Good line-work. It’s fine, but it shouldn’t bleed out too much. Even early, it’s healed over well. Who did you go to?”  
“The same shop as your guy in Boston. Kalvin says ‘hi’.”  
Even watching him from above, Bitty sees Jack’s mouth twitch a little before it returns to its resolute seriousness.

 

“Why did you get it?”

 

Bitty frowns down at him, watching the progress of Jack’s inked thumb across his own skin. He swipes it back and forth, rhythmic and tender, gentle enough not to pull at the skin and distort the image as he looks his fill. Bitty bites his lip.

 

“It’s what I was thinking about, for a while now. And not just because _you_ have them. I mean, you were one of the first people I knew to have so many, but…” He hums a little, trying to gather his thoughts. “Getting one, it reminded me of you.”

 

A line between Jack’s brows becomes slight but defined, and Bitty hears him take in a breath as though he’s about to say something. He backtracks.  
  
“I don’t mean like _that_ , I didn’t get it for you – calm your farm, please. I just mean, of that part of my life that meant so much to me. Bein’ in a band, and finding this new genre of music, and… I know you say tattoos don’t necessarily need to mean anything, but I just wanted something for myself that I saw was tied to it all. Because it meant so much to me. Still does.” He finishes soft, barely a murmur, but he knows Jack can still hear him.

 

Jack nods, once, and swipes his thumb directly over the tattoo.

 

“You know you never had to, right? Just because I do, doesn’t mean you have to.”  
Bitty scoffs at him, only mostly sarcastic. “I’m _well_ beyond trying to impress you, Jack Zimmermann.”  
Jack turns a grin upwards.

“Oh, really? Is that why when you came in my door today, you – and I quote – _needed a shower so I wouldn’t see you crusty from travel_?”  
“Excuse me,” Bitty protests, but doesn’t continue.  


Jack’s smile turns soft.

 

“Not that it matters, but I like it. Not my style, eh, but it’s well done. And… it suits you.”  
“Yeah?”  
“Yeah.” He rubs over the tattoo one last time before rising to his feet. Bitty finds himself being the one who’s now looking up. Jack is standing very close. “You know, it’s small. Bees are annoying.” Bitty huffs and slaps him lightly on the chest, earning another flash of a grin for his indignation before Jack’s face softens again. “They make things sweet.”

 

Bitty stares at him a moment, wide-eyed and stunned, before the laugh bursts out of him.

“Lord, you’re a charmer.”  
“Hey, I have it on good authority that I can be – what was it? _Wildly romantic_.”  
“Good authority, huh?”  
Bitty lets himself be gathered into Jack’s arms, paying no mind as the towel on his hips makes a break for it. Their faces now only an inch apart, Jack murmurs, “the only authority that matters.”

                                                                                                                             

When their lips meet, they kiss through Bitty’s laughter.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from 'West Side Story' by Camp Cope.


	4. i want friends who don't give a fuck again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A chat/transcript/text-fic.

 

**_You have one voicemail, left 01:13 a.m._ **

“Man, why didn’t we come up to fucking Boston more often? Legit, I know I’m always whining and being a pissy little dickhead about it, but – shit, sorry brah – I think I’d just, like, amalga– amalgama– _mixed together_ the bullshit with my dad with, like, the whole town? And it’s not Boston’s fault, man. She’s a good lady. And the scene, bruh, we could’ve had a real fuckin’ good time at some gigs up here. And now my hair’s all gone, and –” _[wet sniff]_ “—I don’t know, man. My best years are behind me.” _[cough]_ “I love you, babe. Get that booty sleep.”

 

* * *

 

 

 **Jack [07:48]**  
Stop calling me babe

 

 **Shitty [07:49]  
** you’ve changed my dude

 

 **Shitty [07:49]  
** you eschew my affection like it means nothing to you

 

 **Jack [07:50]  
** Yeah well I get better affection from elsewhere now. So what good are you for?

 

 **Shitty [07:51]  
** loving you is constant knives in my fucking heart man

 

 **Jack [07:59]  
** Bad at Sex

 

 **Shitty [07:59]  
** hahahahaaaaaahooooahahafuck I BELIEVE IN YOU

 

 **Shitty [07:59]  
** DON’T BE SO HARD ON YOURSELF

 

 **Jack [07:59]**  
And SCUM. They’re very lo-fi and raw, but could be fun live.  


**Jack [08:00]**  
What?

 

 **Jack [08:00]  
** Oh. Haha.

 

 **Shitty [08:00]  
** you’re a one hit wonder and i love it

 

 **Jack [08:00]  
** I have it on good authority that I’m a man of many talents, actually.

 

 **Jack [08:00]  
** And it’s also more like title track from Total Entertainment

 

 **Shitty: [08:01]  
** OHOHOHOHOHOOOOOOO

 

* * *

 

 

 ** _Ransom to Moist Hands  
_** so uh we should probs change the gc name now right

 

 ** _Holster  
_** end of an era

 

 ** _Ransom  
_** i still cry over jack’s funeral speech

 

 ** _Lardo  
_** do we even have hands at all any more

 

 ** _Jack  
_** You guys know you can still use the band name?

 

 ** _Jack  
_** If you wanted

 

 _ **Shitty**  
_ TRAITOR

 

**_Shitty changed Jack’s name to NO FRIENDS ZIMMERMANN_ **

****

**_NO FRIENDS ZIMMERMANN  
_** Really, Shits?

 

 ** _Lardo  
_** sick burn

 

 ** _Shitty  
_** right?

 

 ** _Lardo  
_** no

 

 ** _Bitty  
_** oh jack honey I don’t think we could be soft hands without the two of you <3

 

 ** _Holster  
_** ugh jeezus how do i leave the gc

 

 ** _Holster  
_** (that was a joke i know how to leave the gc)

 

 ** _Holster  
_** (i’m not like ol’ no friends zimmermann over there)

 

 ** _NO FRIENDS ZIMMERMANN  
_** Bittle, help?

 

**_Bitty changed NO FRIENDS ZIMMERMANN’s name to Jack <3_ **

****

**_Jack <3  
_**Thanks :)

 

 ** _Shitty  
_** okay well coolcoolcool ol’ no friends got vetoed by his bf anyway so

 

 ** _Shitty  
_** name brainstorm for you guys

 

 ** _Lardo  
_** namestorm

 

 ** _Shitty  
_** i like the way you think lards

 

**_Shitty changed the group name to Namestorm_ **

****

**_Holster  
_** i for one would like to point out that with ol’ no friends gone

 

 ** _Holster  
_** there is no one to make us have a hockey name when we don’t sing anything about hockey

 

 ** _Ransom  
_** i feel honor bound to defend my countryman

 

 ** _Ransom  
_** but nah

 

 ** _Bitty  
_** Filthy Dangle

 

 ** _Shitty  
_** that’s grOSS i love it

 

 ** _Shitty  
_** who knew you had it in ya bitty

 

 ** _Jack <3  
_**Haha :)

 

 ** _Shitty  
_** wait what does that mean

 

 ** _Shitty  
_** what does thAT MEAN

 

* * *

 

 

“We should start a fucking band, man.”

“Didn’t we do that already?”

“ _Hur hur hur_. I mean, like, a new one. A two-piece.”

“With two guitars and nothing else?” _[metallic scraping]_ “I mean, I know _I_ could pull something out of it, but you?”

“I wanna know when exactly I became the butt – the _ass_ of all musical jokes in our friendship group.”

“Shits, we decided it wasn’t practical. You’re a 1L; I have classes, and placement. You’re always saying to me how you’re living in a study carrel.” _[deep sigh, more metallic scraping]_ “It sucks man, I know. I go to gigs and I’m like, ‘shit, I miss that.’ But neither of us would be happy if we didn’t have time to make it good.”

“Fuck, Jacko. When’d you get all Zen on me?”

“I’ve always been Zen.” _[more metallic scraping]_

“Yeah, pull the other one. What the fuck are you doing anyway?”

 _[more metallic scraping, a grunt]_ “Cleaning my oven. The previous tenant apparently… didn’t. Ever.”

“Huh.” _[pause]_ “You’re cleaning your oven?”

“Yes.” _[cough, sigh]_ “Listen, Shits. It’s just new goals, new place and all that. You’re restless, but you’ll settle in. You had to cut the hair you’d been growing since you were fifteen; stuff like that’ll shake a man. But you’ll find your protest. Just maybe it’s not, you know. As loud as it used to be.”

 _[whistle]_ “Did you just ‘It Gets Better’ me?”

“I told you to get over not liking your haircut. How you take that is up to you.”

“ _Damn_ , love has wizened you. We should start calling you Zennermann.” _[laughter]_ “Ay, there you go – float that with your little hockey players. Get a little hockey nickname started, seeing as you didn’t like any of the ones I came up with before.”

“You’re never going to let that go, are you?”

“Come on, ‘I’m Jay-Z, we are Soft Hands, and we play punk music’? This comedy writes itself.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from 'I Want Friends' by The Smith Street Band.


	5. we're on the championship team

 

Bitty can hear the happiness in Jack’s voice, even without being able to discern the words. From down the hallway, he registers the uptick in volume that only happens when Jack is truly enjoying himself. He hears the snickering laughter that has become one of Bitty’s favorite sounds. He hears the way Jack loses reign on his accent, softening his Ts and shortening his vowels, some words developing extra syllables with his pronunciation.

 

Hearing it, and at Jack’s place of work no less, gets Bitty smiling as he approaches the door to the trainers’ room.

 

Obviously, Jack isn’t alone – he’s never been one much for talking, especially to himself. It would be expected to find him joking with a colleague, or maybe even one of the coaches or support staff. What Bitty isn’t expecting is –

 

“Oh my goodness.”

Jack looks over mid-laugh, smile widening as he spots Bitty in the doorway.

“Bittle. There you are. Come meet Tater.”

Alexei Mashkov is taller even than Jack, and Bitty is used to seeing him in full pads with a murderous expression on his face. In a Falconers t-shirt and athletic shorts, wearing a grin that maybe borders on frenetic, he cuts a no less imposing figure. Somehow, when he lands eyes on Bitty, he lights up more than Jack.

 

Bitty sidles up as close to Jack as he dares and wrenches a hand from where it’s worrying the strap of his satchel to extend it towards Mashkov. _Tater_. His hand is trembling – tiny quivers, but trembling nonetheless.

“It’s a real pleasure to meet you, Mr. Mashkov.”

Alexei Mashkov is a two-handed shaker. He clasps Bitty’s between both of his own giant mitts, and pumps enthusiastically. He doesn’t say anything, though, instead emitting a honk of a laugh that betrays unrestrained delight.

 

Bewildered, Bitty leans back a little and casts raised eyebrows up to Jack. He gets a humored grimace in return. When Tater releases his hand, Bitty grasps at his own elbow and tries to smile good-naturedly. Jack nudges closer, his hand coming up to rest at the small of Bitty’s back. Bitty leans into it.

“Tater was, uh – curious about college. I was telling him how we met.”

“Oh! You’d better not be tellin’ lies about me, Jack Zimmermann.”

“You in band with Zimmboni?”

Bitty gapes, just a little. “Excuse me?”

 

Jack slides his hand from Bitty’s back to his hip, serving to tuck him closer into Jack’s body. It’s a little grounding, at least. Bitty is experiencing a sensation not unlike stepping onto an escalator expected to be moving, only to find that it isn’t.

“Tater’s made it his mission to give me a nickname. He also thought I was joking when I told him about you.”

“This is like ‘Odd Couple.’” Tater is still grinning without abandon, and it’s starting to spread: Bitty finds himself smiling back, more naturally. He chuckles, and feels his nose wrinkling.

“Yes, I suppose it is.”

“Don’t encourage him,” Jack murmurs.

 

“Little Bittle, you tell me – Zimmboni, is he bad boy? We all see him in training room; he does not smile. Looks angry, all the time. Very serious with job. Many tattoos. Other players, we have tattoos, but not like this. Whole body, yes?”

Bitty can’t help giggling, and Jack does join in this time.

“Come on now, don’t tell me that y’all fell for that Mr. Grumpy routine.”

“Hey. Don’t ruin my rep, Bits.”

 

Tater laughs again, the same loud and sudden exclamation.

“He tells us he plays in rock band with boyfriend, and then he comes with pies and says his boyfriend make them. There is bet: Thirdy say Zimmboni have different boyfriend for every day. I say he invent them all. Imaginary boyfriends.” He pauses a moment, and raises his eyebrows in a way that Bitty supposes is significant in some way. “Snowy in here most, though. He say is only one boyfriend, and Zimmboni never shut up.”

Bitty feels he makes a good job of covering how taken-aback he is, still chuckling along and chancing a glance up to Jack, whose cheekbones have gone over recklessly red. When Jack had said “you should meet some of the guys,” Bitty had definitely not translated that to “I’ve been telling the entire starting roster of the Falconers about you.”

 

Tater makes a few more jokes – about Jack’s tattoos clearly meaning he’s done hard time, about the nutritionist on staff toeing the line between exasperation and rage over the pies that Jack has been secretly sharing with the team, about coming over to Jack’s place for dinner and a show. He then gets a phone call and bustles away, dropping a slap to Bitty’s shoulder and a wink in Jack’s direction. Jack waves him off, and laughs out a “Sorry” to Bitty when his voice has faded down the hallway.

 

Bitty turns to lay hands on Jack’s chest, Jack responding by wrapping broad hands over Bitty’s hips.

“Sweet-pea, I had no idea you were going to go and tell an entire professional hockey team about us.”

Jack’s face is still tinged red.

“It, uh – when I’m working on them, they talk to me. There’s only so much hockey they can take, I guess, and none of them know shit about music, so…” He trails off with a shrug of his shoulder. “It’s not like it’s all of them, actually. Just, um. You know, Marty – St. Martin – he asked if I had a girlfriend. So.” He clears his throat and makes a wry smile. “The management is good, actually. I mean, I was never gonna – being out here, they’ve made it… I don’t want to say _easy_. But, euh –”

“Available?” Jack nods agreement, and Bitty pats his chest in a way that he intends to be reassuring. “That’s good. Your boss’s got your back, huh?”

“Not like you, Bits.” He tacks a kiss to Bitty’s cheek on at the end. Bitty snorts, and swats at him.

 

“Stop, you horndog. Wait until we get out of here, at least. I don’t want some boy I’ve seen on SportsCenter happening upon me in a compromising position.”

Jack snickers. “Let me grab my bag, eh?”

 

Jack holds Bitty’s hand through the hallways, and uses his other to wave at whoever they pass. Bitty gets several nods and smiles in his direction, and manages polite smiles in return even when the greeting come from the likes of Sebastien St. Martin and Randall Robinson. Georgia Martin tells Jack to _have a good evening_ , and gifts Bitty with a warm look.

 

“Look at you, big man on campus,” Bitty teases when they reach the parking lot. “Mr. Popular with all these hockey legends.”

“I slipped them all a little something under the table to help me impress you. None of them know my name, actually.”

Bitty elbows him. “Maybe you should get it printed on the back of your little polo shirt. You going to get changed before we go?”

“No, I thought I’d jump in the mosh pit wearing khakis.”

“How the mighty have fallen. Those legendary jorts, defeated by a pair of work-appropriate uniform pants.”

“You don’t like my pants, Bittle? I can take them off, then.”

Bitty affects a dramatic gasp, and clutches at a set of non-existent pearls. To do so, he drops Jack’s hand.

“I do declare, Mr. Zimmermann, I am a gentleman and we are in public. There will be no removing of pants.”

 

Having reached Jack’s car, they round to opposite doors. Jack tosses his bag in the back seat before smirking at Bitty over the roof.

“Does that declaration just apply to the parkade, or my apartment as well? Because I gotta say, that kind of ruins my plans for the time we have before the gig.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from 'Glutton for Distance' by Worriers.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! ♡♡♡ Feel free to comment if you enjoyed!


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